The Unusual Art Of First Kisses
by defyinggravity121
Summary: Kurt reminisces on his "three first kisses" and how they have changed his view of the world. ONE-SHOT!


**Hey guys, and thanks for visiting my story! I'm not entirely sure whether this would be classified as a one-shot or a drabble, because it isn't really either. It's somewhere between a monologue and a poem, actually. Anyway, I hope you like it! Reviews are wonderful as well...**

**- Jess ;)**

* * *

_first kiss_

_(furst kis)_

_-noun_

_1. The first time you touch lips with another person in a romantic way._

That's what the dictionary tells you that the definition of a first kiss is.

_2. When your hands are sweaty, you're shaking and have butterflies in your stomach...when you close your eyes and all you can think of is if you have a fresh breath...when you let the magic begin..._

That's what the definition of a first kiss is.

_3. Love. Hurt. Pain. Anger. Confusion. Passion._

That's what a First Kiss really is.

Of all people, I should know. It's taken me three times to get my First Kiss right. The first was a confused mistake. The second was a bitter truth. The third was a beautiful accident.

You haven't perfected the unusual art of First Kisses until at least the third time around.

* * *

The first First Kiss, as I said before, was a mistake. It was on my part- she didn't know any better. If she actually remebered it now, I would apologize for putting her in that position. But she wouldn't care anyway.

The first time our lips touched, I felt nothing. My lips were numb, my senses were dull, and I frankly didn't give a damn. I wasn't thinking about her, no. I was listening closely for my father's footsteps upstairs, willing him to see my door, see what I was doing. He would be proud, I knew. He would be proud and I would be perfect and we would be that ever-elusive thing, a family.

Wrong. Wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong. Even the Kiss was tainted with bitter and hurt and wanting to know who I was so bad, bad enough to lock lips with a person who cared nothing for me. I was desperate for a mask, for mine was crumbling faster then sand in your wet palms.

And soon that mask dissolved into nothing and I was left alone on an empty stage, the spotlights burning my eyes and the lyrics scraping my throat and my tears carving scars into my skin.

Alone. Confused. Bitter.

That was my first First Kiss.

And it meant nothing.

* * *

Seven months later, things were not much better. My back and neck was a patchwork of bruises created by cruel, cutting words and being slammed mercilessly into lockers every single day. He was the one who did it most of the time. He with the large hands and cold eyes that raked me over every time we passed in the hallway, at first in disgust and then in something completely different. Something primitive and animalistic that I couldn't quite put my name on, but I knew it was there.

The way he stared at me hungrily.

The way he got much too close to me when calling me names that cut like knives.

The way his hands lingered too long on my chest when he pushed me into the lockers.

It scared me more than any of the insults or threats ever could.

And then there was a word, a word hovering on the outside of my conscience constantly. A word of smiles and love and acceptance and a boy with honey-colored eyes. A word that gave me strength to go on when going on was all that I could do.

And one day, going on goes too far.

It begins with a push, a shove, a something splintering into a million tiny pieces. A confrontation in a locker room reeking of sweat and desperation. His eyes locked on mine, eyes filled with hate and fear and something else. He is a beast in the shape of a man.

And I am the beauty.

It is brief, passionate, angry. It is not full of love, but of lust and fear and regret. It is a surprise and a truth that I had not been willing to accept until this very moment, when it was upon me, its mouth on mine, its tounge licking my lips and me pulling away and him leaning in again and it ends like it began. With a push.

A shove.

A threat on my life.

That was my second First Kiss.

And it meant something.

* * *

The third First Kiss begins in death.

A bird is nothing consequential, I know. It was just a bird, and even though it was a nice bird, it didn't mean much to me.

What meant something to me is seeing its body, lifeless, on the floor of the cage, and just for a second, seeing another dead body there. The body of a woman, broken by cancer, her heart too tired to go on.

And that's why I sang a song to my dead canary. I wasn't singing it to the canary, not really. I was singing it to her.

Only the boy with the honey-colored eyes understood.

He came to me later, with a prepared speech on hand. It was clear that he had been trying to work up the courage to say these things for a while now, but hadn't quite found the right words yet.

But I know what he meant.

And what he meant was magic and breathlessness and holding hands and coffee on Wednesdays and glee club rehearsal and first-times and duets and the one thing that I want most. Love.

Love that he was willing to, and that he did, give to me.

That was my third First Kiss.

And it meant everything.


End file.
